


Naming

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, DONT BIND WITH ACE BANDAGES, Identity Issues, M/M, Stancest - Freeform, Trans Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, binding, dont, trans!stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 22:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Stan doesn't cope well with loosing his "name."





	Naming

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on Tumblr wanted trans!Stan fic and by golly so did I.

The only thing that keeps Stanford from completely tearing Stan a new one is that the twins are away for the night with the odd gopher man and the intimidating redhead. Still, Stan is completely, dangerously inebriated, slouched against the wall, staring at the dismantled portal. He's clutching a bottle of scotch, cheap and most likely shoplifted, knowing his irresponsible brother.

“ My God, Stanley.” He says and Stan is too far gone to startle, he merely rolls his head against the wall and blinks at Ford blearily, eyes unfocused and glassy behind his smudged glasses.

“ Who’zat? Oh, ‘s you.” Stan’s head is slack, like a hanged man, and the morbid image makes Ford frown even as his disgust with his brother grows. “F’ck off, Ford.” Stan brings the the lip of the bottle to his mouth again and spills a generous portion down his loose, stained undershirt. He stares dumbly down at himself and murmurs: “Shit.” Ford snarls as he marches over and forcibly tugs the bottle from his brother’s liquor-numb finger. He’d like to throw it as hard as he can, but that’s not another of Stan’s messes he wants to clean up. “Hey.”

“What are you _doing_ here, Stanley?” _Gather the facts, Ford,_ he tells himself and resists the urge to rub his temple. _You are a rational man. A man of science._ Stan glares at him, like _Ford’s_ the idiot. Which looks moronic with his sweating, red face and bloodshot eyes.

“‘ M gettin’ shit faced, Ford, what it look like?” Stan grumbles and he must be quite drunk because his normally over-the-top growl of a voice and creeping up in pitch. Still rough as a rusted engine but softer.

“Well, _what_ possessed you to get drunk in _my_ basement?” Ford saps, crossing his arms in an attempt to not shake his brother, to knock around that shriveling brain until it comes to reason. Stan huffs and then sighs.

“ Din’...din’ wan’ kids to see me.” His head rolls away from Ford, weightless, unfocused. Like this he looks even more like a dead man.

“ At least you know what a state you look,” Ford drawls, leans against the wall Stan is sitting against. Stan grunts.

“ F’ck off, Stanford. Leave a man ta his mournin’.” Stan reaches for the bottle and frowns when he doesn't find it. He glares at Ford again. “Gimme my booze, Ford.”

“ No. And what on earth are you mourning? The loss of the portal? The possible end of the world?” Ford snipes, growing more contemptuous.

“ Mourin’ Stanley fuckin’ Pines, asshole, now gimme my booze. I don't wanna think.” Stan rolls, palm slapping the ground loudly, sloppily as he tries to push himself up. He trembles and then tips over, landing soundlessly on his shoulder. Ford feels a mix of revulsion and pity and is almost concerned that his brother has passed out, but he notes the slight reflection of light as tears start to trickle unevenly down Stan’s face.

“ Get up, Stanley.” Ford says because there is nothing kinder he can say.

“ No point,” Stan moans, voice getting higher. “Gonna lose shack, gonna...gonna lose the  _ kids _ .” Stan shifts on the ground like an insect, curling around himself. He can't quite do it.

“My God, Stanley, don't be so dramatic.” Ford rolls his eyes, taps the bottle against his side in agitation. “Now get up and _out_ of my basement.” Stan rolls his head again and again he looks like a man with a broken neck.

“ Yer...yer real f-fuckin’ stupid, Ford.”

“ ...What the hell is that supposed to mean, Stanley?” Ford feels icy, pitiless and lethal. Stan snorts, inelegant on the ground.

“ The hell ya think gon’ happen ta me, Sixer? Ya really th-think I’m g-gonna...” Stan trails off, and Ford wonders again if he’s passed out. “I ain’t never gonna see the kids again.” Stan finally whispers.

“ You’re drunk, Stan.”

“ Fuck you, Ford.” And Stan, voice still rough and high as he clumsily rolls to kneel like the most defiant supplicant. Ford sighs again, long and deep, exhausted. “Ya think the moment the twins...ya think the moment the parents figure out I ain’t Stanford they gonna let me see the kids?” Stan’s scowling face crumples and he leans back on his knees, head heavy and low, chin near touching his chest. “I’m gon’ lose my kids,” Stan murmurs, wet and muffled. Ford takes a moment to consider the pitiful sight of his brother, his brother’s words.

“ ...I’m sure it won’t come to that,” he tries, unused to soothing, especially when he is still so angry.

“ Fuck, Ford,” Stan glares at Ford through his lashes, still long even though they’ve paled with age. “I'd be disappointed if they didn’t hate me.” Stan’s heat frosts over ad he slumps again. “Ya know, Ford? Ya know what the best part of being Stanford Pines was?”

“ The lack of criminal record?” Ford sneers, can’t resist. Stan has the audacity to laugh.

“ The birth certificate.” Ford frowns, sure his brother’s mind is so drowned in scotch that it’s started to dissolve. “First time I didn’t...didn’t gotta lie.” Stan smiles, wistful and bitter. “Stanford Pines was a man.” Stan crumples. “I don’t wanna lose that, Ford. I don’t wanna go back.” And Ford remembers with a grimace.

(“It ain’t enough to have one freak of a son! It ain’t enough to have a screw up of a daughter!” Filbrick grabbed Stan, Starla they had called him, the name on his,  _ yes _ , birth certificate. Filbrick was shaking him, Stan’s breathing shallow and fast; impeded by the clumsy wrapping of the pilfered boxing tape and bandages. Stan’s gut and strong jaw, so like Ford’s own did the rest to fool most people at a glance. But the world was unforgiving to anomalies like Ford and Stan. (“I wanna be Stanley! That way I’m a Stan like you!”) “Ya gotta screw up this one chance we had to make it!” Filbrick wrenches open the door and Ma stands frozen and torn with the baby.

Ford remembers watching angry and hurt as Stan hits the pavement. The door slams and Filbrick had disappeared upstairs to come back down a moment later with a duffel bag. He wrenches the door open and Ford remembers the sound the bag made and the second slam of the door. )

It hurts to remember, Ford feels a surprising sting guilt. He had never really let himself feel guilty. Regret, yes. Hurt, of course. But Stan has always been clever and resourceful. It is hard to remember that they were so young once.

He’s startled out of his reminiscing by a chuckle from Stan.

“‘ Member first time I got fake ID. Asshole put  _ female. _ ”  Stan near spits. “Told ‘im ‘I’m a boy.’ He made a new one but charged me twice. Bastard.” Stan is still swaying on his knees and it must hurt.

“ Stan...come on, you’ve been drinking.” Ford takes a careful step toward his brother, still staring off at nothing.

“ Made my own after that. Shitty. Got better.” Stan’s face get’s fearful a moment. “Don’t wanna go back.”

Ford places the bottle on the floor.

“ Come on, Stan, let’s get you to bed.” Ford reaches a hand to his brother. Stan grumbles and tries to shrug it away but flails and lands hard. “Stan.” Ford says, stern. Stan sags and reaches up a shaking hand, his age showing through the nervous effects of the liquor. He is heavy and useless as Ford hauls him up and he leans his entire weight against Ford. Stan is not light and Ford is grateful he gained strength on the other side of the portal.

Ford quickly realizes that Stan is too heavy and drunk to make it to his room. Instead, Ford half coaches, half drags Stan to his office where a cot is stored for late nights and carefully times experiments. Stan lands heavily on it and stares at the ground. It’s surreal and disquieting to see his brother so still and subdued.

“ Stanley, I think you should lay down.” Ford tries, rests a hand lightly on Stan’s shoulder. Stan grunts again.

“ Where’s my booze, Ford?” Stan asks like a statement, like a demand.

“ You’ve had enough, Stanley.” Ford pushes firmly, insistent and Stan grunts again and shoves at his hand.

“ Fine, you controlling fuck.” Stan grumbles and starts to clumsily finger the hem of his shirt. Ford watches, all these years and he stills finds himself flushing and then frowning severely when Stan’s shirt comes off fully.

“ Really, Stanley?” Ford sighs and moves forward to help, knowing his brother is too drunk to remove the cheap bandages that rubbed his skin red. Stan tries to slap him away. “You’re still using these things?”

“‘ S cheap,” Stan slurs while he lifts his arms, like he used to when they were kids, to let Ford unwind the old, tan ACE bandages and reveal inch by inch the indents and impressions on Stan’s skin where the the makeshift bindings forced his flesh into a shape that molded it like poured wax. Ford can’t help but run his fingers over the sore-looking marks, they way he used to forty years ago. Stan doesn’t shiver the way he used to. Ford wonders if Stan is numb from the lack of blood flow or alcohol or the years that have carved creases into his face. It makes Ford feel a kind of sweet sadness.

“ I worry about you, Stanley,” Ford confesses softly as Stan’s breasts finally sag freely. They were never ample, a blessing Stan was teased for mercilessly, and now they are even less impressive, wrinkled and limp against the hanging gut Stan sports shameless in his inebriated state. Stan stares down at his body, face distant.

“ Bullshit,” he mumbles.

“ I know you think I’m some...some kind of heartless monster,” Ford says even as his thumb still traces the red line on Stan’s chest. Stan slaps his hand away with surprising ferocity.

“ Don’t,” he warns. Ford startles from the venom in his gaze.

“ I didn’t mean--”

“ Just don’t, Ford.” Stan looks away, shoulders rolling up protectively and arms covering his chest.

“ My apologies,” Ford straightens, hands behind his back. Stan scoffs.

“ Ain’t personal, Piontdexter, just. Not a fan.” Stan says and it’s awkward. Ford doesn’t remember it ever being this awkward.

“D o you remember that night under the boardwalk, with the fireworks--”

“ Ford, I don’...I don’ really wanna remember nothin’ right now.” Stan cuts him off and Ford’s budding smile dims and dies.

“ I...see.” It’s quite and that hurts, somehow.

“ Hey. You,” Stan stops and grunts at himself. “You...whatever, g’night, Ford.” Stan makes to roll over and away and Ford’s hand shoots out and grabs Stan’s shoulder tightly. Because Ford knows what Stan was going to ask.

“ I’d...I might be,” and Ford stumbles himself. It’s Stan’s turn to roll his eyes. He grabs Ford’s wrist and wriggles back against the wall.

“ Hop in.” He says. Ford hesitates but gently pulls his hand free to remove his jacket, his boats. After a moment, he shimmies out of his jeans and sheds his sweater. Stan makes no remark about his scars or tattoo. Just holds the military thin blanket up, bare and vulnerable. Ford slides in next to him.

It’s a bit awkward and Ford realizes that that’s what they are now. Awkward. Ford offers an olive branch.

“ I can...that is I know. I can...change it, you know.” Ford is hesitant with his offer, nervous. Stan looks at him, sleepy and grumpy and still very drunk.

“ The fuck.” He says.

“ I can make you a man.” Ford rushes, blushing, somehow nervous even though it’s his brother who has made the mistakes tonight.

“ I thought...” Stan says after a long silence, voice soft and quiet and  _ wrong _ . “God, outta anyone, Sixer, I thought you knew I was.”

“ That’s not what I mean!” Ford huffs. “Just, on the outside. There’s a fungus in Gravity Falls that, while the secretions are questionable, can be used to--”

“ Ford, Ford, sh.” Stan slaps a lazy hand against Ford’s face. “I’m too old, Ford.” Stan sighs and the pitch, the tone, the whole damn night makes Ford hurt.

“ Nonsense, I--”

“ No, Ford, there’s...there’s no point.” Stan sounds defeated as his sweaty palm slides down Ford’s face to rest limply on the shared pillow; the share each others breaths. “I’m too  _ old. _ ”  Ford stays silent, bites his tongue because Stan is not done talking, only thinking. “I...heh, what I done, Ford. I ain’t.” He smiles grimly at his brother. “I ain’t healthy, Stanford.” His sobriety is startling, he is still very, very drunk; Stan would not be so candid sober, but he is somehow shrewd. “I done some shit and my body’s shit. So,” Stan trails off, old and thoughtful and melancholy. “What’s the point, Sixer?” And that stings the worst. Ford’s knucklehead of a brother that would risk the apocalypse but not his identity. Wouldn’t try because he had, against all of the odds and all logic, given up.

“ ...In dimension...93,” Ford starts slowly. Stan grunts, unfocused. “There was a-a person who was a...queen for many years,” Ford stumbles over the details and Stan is still not listening. “She was wealthy. Her palace was made of gold and it...it burned at dawn and dusk like the sun.” Stan perked up at gold, hand unconsciously fingering his gold chain.

“ Rich broad, huh?” Stan murmurs.

“ Hm, yes, but the queen wasn’t happy because...because the queen wanted to be the king.” Stan frowned up at Ford, eyes narrowed and sharp. He opens his mouth like he might speak so Ford hurries on. “No one would though! Acknowledge the king! It was years and years and the...well there were children and the children had children. The...king was very, very old when a...wise man came.” Ford stumbles and Stan snorts but listens. “The...the man had a mirror and the mirror showed who one truly was.”

“ And the broad was a dude, I get it, Ford,” Stan snorts, near offended.

“ Yes,” Ford agrees. “And the wise man was so moved that he gave the...person a potion to manifest their true self. They, uh, didn’t want to at first. But the wise man said,” and Ford pauses, thinking rapidly. “‘If not for yourself, then for the young man who never got the chance.’ So the person drank and became a king. He died, of course, not long after, but surrounded by his family and at peace with himself.” Ford finishes and takes a chance to stroke Stan’s face.

“ That a true story, Sixer?” Stan mumbles, sleepy.

“ Of course,” Ford lies. He never heard such a story and he is lucky Stan is too drunk to see through him.

“ Still seems a waste.” Stan murmurs. Ford leans over and pecks a kiss to his forehead.

“ You never have to change, Stanley,” Ford whispers to Stan’s thinning hair. “I’ll always know who you are.” Stan makes a low, wounded noise. “What?” Ford leans back, let’s his fingers replace his lips.

“Tomorrow , Ford.” Stan mumbles and then goes green. “Shi’.” Ford scrambles back.

“ Stan, no, not on the cot! Stan!”

Stan spends the rest of the night vomiting into anything that will hold it and groaning like a dying man while Ford tries to invent a hangover cure.

Neither of them are successful.


End file.
